


Hang on to yourself - chapter 5

by basaltgrrl, debl_ns



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-26 02:40:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/645632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/basaltgrrl/pseuds/basaltgrrl, https://archiveofourown.org/users/debl_ns/pseuds/debl_ns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emotions run high as the team copes with Gene's absence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hang on to yourself - chapter 5

Sam was lost even though he'd followed the path. Green leaves blotted out the sky, some interlocking, some allowing the sun to peek through. It was like looking at an incomplete puzzle. He smelled dirt, bark, grass--primeval smells that added to the sense that this place was well and truly wild. He thought he saw something sitting inside a rotting log, covered in moss. A flick of a grey tail and it was gone, further into the log.

_Daddy,_ w _here are you?_ He heard a noise. A footstep, a loud crack of a branch. Something moved in the trees. He wondered if it was _big._ (He hoped it was Daddy.) Another twig snapped, and he jumped. It was getting closer. “Daddy!” Sam felt a warm dribble of urine trickle down his leg like a tear. “He's coming back!” he cried. “My daddy's coming back!”

A figure was outlined by the sun, rays tracing arms and legs. Sam was sure it had no head. He saw it move ahead along the path and then a voice said, “What are you afraid of, boy?” It was Daddy in his worn suit and tie and scuffed shoes, and he forgot his fear and squealed in relief. He leapt forward and grabbed hold of his father's leg. The material felt smooth in his fingers and he could feel the warmth underneath. “Where were you?” Sam said, sniveling.

Vic placed his battered satchel on the ground. It was black, made from cheap imitation leather. “Why are you crying, little man?”

“I'm n-not c-crying. You disappeared … a-and I didn't know where you'd gone. I heard a … and I saw the … I c-called and you never answered. W-Why didn't you answer?”

“Okay. Jesus,” Vic said, patting him on the shoulder. “Pull yourself together, son.” 

“Don't go, Daddy.”

“I'm afraid I have to go.”

“Don't go.”

Vic put his arms around Sam, draping them over the black leather jacket and giving him a long hug, and even though Vic was slight, Sam felt protected. Safe.

“You'll be fine.”

“You have to stay. Daddy, please.” 

“Go back to your mother.” Vic said, dropping his hands and smiling. “That sounds like fun, doesn't it?”

Sam gazed at the satchel at his father's feet. “No! I don't want to go back home. I want to be with you!”

Vic sighed. “Act like a big man now, Sammy. You know I have to go. Don't make such a fuss.”

Sam pressed his nose into Vic's jacket, closing his eyes. He could smell his father's cologne, something woodsy--like he really had materialised from the trees. Manly. Mummy said he smelled manly when he splashed it all over. “Stay?”

“I'll see you later.”

“Will you?”

“I'll be back on Saturday to take you to the football. I would never leave without saying goodbye, I promise.”

Sam nodded. Then he felt it. Something soft and plush over arms that were big, solid. A heavy hand squeezed his shoulder. Sam opened his eyes. Gene looked back, bending his head a little to look into Sam's face. He moved his face closer to Sam's, and Sam thought he was going to kiss him, but instead Gene started to fade and Sam found himself clutching at nothing. He'd gone, the bastard.

He woke up suddenly, in Gene's bed, eyes wide, sure that Gene had slipped out of his arms forever. Sam rubbed his hand across his eyes. He'd slept badly, had bad dreams. Again. He stared at the ceiling. It was quiet. Too quiet. When Gene was here, his house resonated with noise … even when he was asleep. _Burps. Snores. Farts_.

“I'll be home soon,” Gene had said, the last morning they'd woken up together. Sam had placed his hand on Gene's chest, felt the beat of his heart as he'd held it there, rising and falling as Gene had breathed in and out. Gene had grabbed his wrist and pulled Sam to him. “How about a shag, Sappy Sue?” He'd winked and kept his grip. “Stops the thinking.”

“That's what I like about you, the sentimental pillow talk.”

They had both laughed, then Gene had moved his hands, running them over Sam's body like he was a potter and Sam was a lump of clay he was shaping. He'd held Sam, like he was a perfect pot, not marred, and he'd moved his hands skillfully over Sam's moist skin. His touch was both gentle and rough as he'd molded and kneaded, making Sam his own, and Sam _was_ the work of his hands, moaning, writhing, ready to be fired. And, “God, Gene”, he was Gene's and Gene was his and they'd been all hot mouths and wet tongues and hard cocks … and Sam had forgotten everything.

*****

Sam had a quick wash-up before padding downstairs in his bare feet to the kitchen. He fixed himself breakfast, pouring boiling water over instant coffee then, coffee cup in his hand, sat down at the table. As he added milk and two sugar lumps to his drink, he was conscious of Gene's chair on the opposite side of the table. There it was, pushed away from it as if Gene had just gotten up one minute before. Sam took a sip of the coffee and spit it back into the cup; it tasted about as shit as he was feeling. The last interview with Brian Matthews crept into his mind.

Matthews had been an unremarkable bloke, what Sam had termed “average”. Brown-haired and brown-eyed, he'd had a small moustache that looked out-of-place on his robust frame, and a tattoo of a buzzard on his right forearm. Predatory. Appropriate, Sam had thought with loathing. Matthews had been uncommunicative at first, facing Sam and Ray across the table with his eyes on the wall like he'd been searching for a way out. Gene would have been perched on the edge of the table, taking control of the interrogation like a king occupying his throne and Matthews his subject. Sam had carried a file folder with him to convey his authority, implying that he had information he could use against Matthews.

“The last time you were interviewed, you didn't want to say anything against Carl Reynolds. You're good at following orders, aren't you, Brian? Running errands. Casing a joint. Removing a witness. Keeping quiet.”

Matthews was silent, his hands in his lap curled like talons. Sam pulled out a black and white photograph of a female murder victim. He leaned toward Matthews, not taking his eyes off him. “I want to talk to you about Maggie Taylor. So, what do you know about her?”

Matthews met Sam's eyes. “I don't know what you mean.”

Sam held up the photo for Matthews to take. Watching his face, Sam had a feeling the man knew exactly whose photo he was going to see. “She witnessed a murder. Her own son. And then she died. Why? Can you answer me that?”

“No,” Matthews said, passing it back. “Don't know, do I? Nothing to do with me.”

“She represented a danger. But do you know what, Brian? She wasn't a danger to anybody. She was sixty-eight years old … Did it make you smile when you learned what Reynolds intended to do?”

Matthews shrugged.

“Say it out loud for the tape, please.”

“It's rubbish. I weren't even there.”

“I don't believe you. I think you helped him do it. Took Carl Reynolds to kill Maggie Taylor. That makes you his accomplice.”

“I'm not … his accomplice. No way.” Matthews put his hands to his stomach. “I haven't eaten,” he complained.

“I had time for some lamb chops and veg before this interview started,” Ray pointed out.

“Table for two in the canteen,” Sam added.

“How about--”

“Sorry, what? Are you asking me if I'll bring you some food? Tom Taylor is dead. Maggie Taylor is dead. Your meat and veg'll wait.” Sam began to go through some of the papers. “How long have you known Reynolds?”

“A bit.”

“Where did you meet him?”

“Here. Manchester. What does it matter?”

Sam sighed. “Okay, Brian. You want to cover for him. Loyalty. It's a rare thing. More like fear, I expect. You know what'll happen? He'll take you down with him. You don't need to go to prison for murder.”

“You're not going to fit me up for that!” Matthews launched himself at Sam, but, before Sam could respond, Ray punched Matthews hard on the side of his head, sending him back into his chair.

“Oi! You need to be taught some manners,” Ray said. He turned to Sam. “Let me have a couple of words with him, Boss. I'll make him confess, all right.”

“It weren't me,” Matthews said, protesting.

“They all say that,” Ray said. “You should know that, Matthews. Give us a statement, then.”

“You won't get anything out of me!”

Sam smiled at Ray sideways, and Ray nodded. They threw themselves forward and dragged Matthews from his chair. He tumbled backwards, catching himself with his right hand, the muscles of his forearm throbbing, making the wings of the buzzard tattoo flutter as if it was going to take flight. Spreadeagled, he scrambled for the far wall his nails digging into the floor.

“Get him!” Sam yelled at Ray.

“I'll have you, you bloody bastard bugger,” Ray hissed.

They grabbed Matthews' arms and slammed him against the wall, letting his head collide with it with a crack. Sam pressed his arm against his throat, and Matthews let out a squawking noise. Their faces were close, Sam's mouth nearly touching Matthews' cheek. Their breath mingled, and Sam was aware of the stink of unbrushed teeth.

“You still want to say you don't know anything?”

“Yeah, you fucking--” Matthews sputtered, spittle dribbling down his chin.

Sam thought about Gene, and he knew that every move he'd made during this case, every one he would make, had been for him, to ensure that he'd get back alive. Sam forced down his arm. Matthews scratched at him with his hands. A voice in the back of Sam's head warned, _You idiot, this is how suspects die_ , but he pushed harder.

“Let's start again,” Sam suggested, his voice hard, “but keep it up, and I'll hang you by the balls from the town hall clock tower.”

“We'll be able to hear the balls … I mean bells ring,” Ray said, and Sam grinned at him.

Matthews' eyes filled with tears and he went still. Sam loosened his hold on him and he dropped to the floor, on all fours. He rolled to his side, his ribs heaving as he gasped for air.

“You're--off--your--head!”

*****

Sam had sat for a while on his own on a kerb outside the Railway Arms. He had bought fish and chips, sharing the fish with two mischievous magpies he'd named Heckle and Jeckle. He'd tossed it into the air, the two birds running after it, then the fish was gone and he'd thrown the paper in a bin.

He contemplated the sky. A low layer of grey clouds were gathering. Plenty of sky to get lost in, that. What was up there? Shangri-La? Or was he already here? Was Carl Reynolds responsible for the murders of Tom Taylor and Maggie Taylor? Both, probably. Jesus, where did that leave Gene? He caught a whiff of the fish and chip paper and felt slightly queasy.

“Oh, you're still here.”

He turned around and saw Annie. 

She seemed happy to see him, and tucked her hair behind her ear. “I didn't startle you, did I?”

“You? No. Just thinking.”

“Are you all right, Sam?” Annie asked, sitting down beside him.

Sam wondered if she'd still be looking at him with tenderness if she could see the dark hole inside him. He and Ray had gotten out their big sticks with Matthews--and it had been satisfying somehow. _Satisfying_. No look, however fond, was going to help with that. “Not really,” he said finally.

Annie touched his arm with her hand. She was studying his face, and when she answered it was like she _had_ seen inside him--and found the truth. “Don't be hard on yourself. You did what you thought was best.” She squeezed. “The Guv knows his way around. If he wants out, he'll say so.”

In reply, he pulled her into an embrace, one hand going around her back. “Feelings … They're all brewing inside me.” Sam heard an answering rumble of thunder. “I'm … lost, Annie.”

“You haven't lost yourself,” Annie replied, leaning into him. “You're a good man, and a good copper.” She kissed him on the cheek then pulled away. “And Ray thinks you're brilliant,” she added, winking.

“I don't think he's my type,” Sam said, trying to make it sound flippant. He felt himself close to tears, and blinked. He carried Gene with him, but he had to carry him in a secret place. If only he could talk about it with Annie.

“I could do with a walk.” Annie stood up, holding out her hand. “Come with me.”

He looked up at her, and gave her a smile. She looked pleased that she'd said the right thing. As Sam took her hand, and they stepped from the kerb, rain began to fall.

“I don't mind if it rains,” Annie said softly. “I'll still be your friend.”


End file.
